Summer in Black
by polkadot-skies
Summary: After a disastrous mission in Hawaii, Cammie sets off to figure out her past mistakes as a civilian, with the help of fashion and makeup. But danger and espionage still seems to follow her wherever she goes, can she ever return to her former job as a CIA operative? Beta-ed by the very awesome faith for eternity :
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: So, new story and all, I think it needs some reviews to keep it from dying fast. Because reviews make it happy. Anyways, enjoy! -Nana**

* * *

I dropped the phone on my table with a sigh, and slumped in my chair.

Officially fired as of 17:00 today from the position of Agent Cameron Morgan CIA.

Wonderful.

My fingers caressed the surface of the wood desk I've accompanied through my CIA life, and realize how long it's been since that summer of black, the summer that dyed my entire life into an overcast of black and white.

Drifting off into dreams, I let my head drop to my table for the last time as I officially exit my job with snores.

* * *

_"It's your fault," she snarled, pushing my chest away, her palms exercising the most force possible as I do nothing to stop her. She screams at me, pushes me, doing whatever possible to keep the truth from entering her brain. But it's too late. I can see her mind registering that one sentence, the same time as I do, as she keels over and cries in sobbing increments. I can do nothing but stare, the shock still numbing me until I can barely even feel alive._

_People with faces that I can't remember surround us, pulling her up and dragging her off, no doubt somewhere far away from me. A few of them give me a pitying glance that I can't help but hate._

_It's my fault._

* * *

"What is the meaning of this, Agent Morgan?" he asks, tapping on a document that was the report of my behavior during my stay in Honolulu, Hawaii.

Inwardly I winced. The stay had not gone well. With what paparazzi and potential assassination plots, it was bad enough as it was.

I gave him my most stoic look. "It was in my best judgment, sir," I replied.

"Best judgment?" he exploded. "Look at this report, Agent. What of this screams 'best judgment'?"

He went on and on about everything single detail. About the sliding stairs incident (that was to protect the Subject; I wouldn't have gotten to the Subject in time without sliding down the stairwell. And what civilians may have been in my way, well, they were only bruised), about the dining room incident (rode inside a cart of food to the room after foreseeing possible threats and scared some important guests; not my problem), etc, etc, etc.

Once he finished, I added in my best and final defense. "It was to protect the Subject."

His face softened a bit. He knew about everything; he understands why I go so far for some unknown person. But this time his face closes up, and I know I've used up my lives.

"It's too much," he says at last, throwing the document onto his desk and leaning back, covering his eyes with his hand. "You go too far. This isn't best judgment, Morgan. It's about your past."

I stand there, gaped at him as I begin to shoot off statistics, anything, to prove it wrong. But I stop. I know he's right. I am keeping my past with me, and never letting it go. So I downcast my eyes and swallow hard, preparing for the consequences.

When he finally speaks, his tone is softer and quieter. He regrets this. "I'm letting you go, understand? Live a little. I don't require of my agents to live as agents 24/7. From what I hear, you have 17 men panting after you while you're off protecting an elderly politician with your life."

I bite the inside of my cheek and after a pause; quickly get out of the room before it can suffocate me.

* * *

I finger the envelope in my hands while examining my prospects. It's money, from the Director. He feels that since this is so sudden, money would be helpful. Some shit. My job back would be helpful. It would at least keep the grief from killing me.

"I'll take that one," I nod at my choice. She hurries to grab it and shows me what I've got.

"It's a one bedroom, one master bedroom apartment. Living room, kitchen, everything." She yatters on about all the benefits while I examine them myself.

It's not too bad of a place, actually. A friendly neighborhood, a decent lobby and some facilities.

She scampers out before I can change my mind.

Never have I actually owned a place to live. Most of the times, I'm stuck in foreign hotels and safe houses, brain overworking with plans and threats. Now and then, when I have paperwork, I'm at the office all week.

I take a minute to reexamine everything. I marvel at the emptiness. It has the idea of potential. It can become anything: a drug addict's hang out, a children's nursery. Under my hand, all it becomes is a room. There's no identity to it. A bed, a desk, a closet. The necessities. My hand floats across the plain white walls, wishing for this. Something clean and fresh, something that can start again with nothing in its past but the potential to become.

Once I unpack my bags, I sleep. It's the middle of the day, and yet I'm sleepy. I feel the urge to just stay sleeping forever so that nothing like reality can slap me hard in the face and hurt me and make me cry. Except it already has. So much that my dreams like to copy my reality and slap me hard in the face and hurt me and make me cry too.

* * *

A knock at the door wakes me from my dreams. I'm glad for it, even though socializing isn't my number one thing.

I open the door, groggy and not caring who sees me. I blink.

"Cam!" she squeals, then hugs me. Behind her blonde hair, I see two other figures. I close my door, and crouch down and whisper, "This is a dream. A dream."

Then the knocks come again, louder this time. An exasperated voice echoes, "Is not. Let us in or we'll break down the door. And even if Liz can't do it, Macey and I can."

I unlock the door and open it a bit, before sprinting for my bed and snuggling in, trying to ignore the voices behind me.

My efforts are in vain.

10 minutes later, I'm sitting up miserably with a cup of tea in my hand.

"Cam."

It takes a minute for me to realize they're speaking to me. But it's not that that scares them.

"Oh, Cam," Liz says, gently embracing me, as if I will break into pieces. The irony.

I lick my lips, feeling how cracked they are as I reply, "Yes?" My answer is stony cold and unfeeling. I want it this way. I don't want to feel anything. Once I do, I'll lose it and I'll die again. And again, and again. It's an endless cycle of dying.

I end up getting something that smells like cucumbers slicked onto my face.

"Helps to minimize pores," Macey describes, "not that you have any." I begin to roll my eyes, before realizing I'm not supposed to react to anything. So I stay obedient and let them slather on goo onto my face.

They stay for a few more hours, before unwillingly going home. Bex stayed the longest, but even she left by midnight.

"We'll come again," she promised.

I felt myself feel almost happy to hear those words. Until I realize that promises can be broken.

I go back to bed.

* * *

"Are you hiring?"

She looks up at my face, this time actually looking. Then her eyes move down, and I inwardly wince at the sudden look over. She has these intense eyes that burn through everything but you, and I feel like I'm naked. That there is no cover to hide me from these woman's eyes.

"There are some requirements," she speaks slowly, her hands already speeding away with a pile of documents organized.

"Number one," she continues, "you follow my rules." As she says this, she's already hooking her arm with me and dragging me towards a rack of clothes. The bright colors hurt my eyes that are used to the black and white monochrome themed uniform at the CIA.

"Number two," she grabs hangers from the rack and I mentally imagine what boot camp I would go through. "Dress good. And by good, I don't mean conservative. I mean style."

If Macey was here with me, she would've been totally nodding her head along and pushing me into the dressing room.

And the woman did just that. She ushered me into the dressing room with a hill of clothes. "Try them on, honey," her words echo through the door, now closed. "I'm your new boss, Amanda."

I come out of the dressing room awkwardly, not used to what I'm wearing. I blindly remember Bex pointing out the shoes I'm wearing as all the panic in Milan. I walk like it's a mined floor, carefully stepping out.

The voices I hear stop, and I look up. Amanda's with a customer, who's staring at me and I blush. Then she slowly points her finger at me, and states, "Give me that."

I widen my eyes as her words go through my mind, and relax as she means the clothes. Not me.

Amanda's busy smiling as she goes to get a size for the customer and manages to win an extra purchase along with a new worker. Huzzah.

I stand there, not entirely sure of myself as the customer exits and Amanda turns to face me, finally. "Can I change?" I ask, feeling how different and unfeeling the fabrics were to me.

"Look at yourself in the mirror," is all she says, and I do. My feet move methodically to the right.

I see someone. I don't know that someone. She looks so tired of everything she doesn't even try to look at herself in the eye. She's so tired she can't spare a glance of happiness and pride at how the clothes accept her. At how they try to hug her, and shower her with shows of affection, 'You're beautiful,' 'We will let you wear us because we can make you look pretty,'

"Twirl," Amanda orders. An order. I am obedient. I lift up the edges of my dress and twirl, slowly getting faster and faster. I see myself. Somewhere, in that twirling,

I see myself before that summer in black coated me in shadow.

I go to the dressing room and change.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: So, chapter 2 is here! Thanks to those who reviewed this story, Chameleon 101, PokemonGeek14, and Megz the Dino! Anyways, is this like perfect timing or what (for those of you who know? maybe not...)? And also, thanks to faith for eternity, the best beta ever. But at any rate, please enjoy :) **

* * *

Everyday I arrive to work with a plain gray sweater and black sweatpants, Amanda rolls her eyes and pushes me into the dressing room with new clothing. Billowy, soft white blouses paired with the newest hot cargo skinnies or the grungiest, burn out graphic tee with tight leather pants. My fingers tread carefully over them, surprised, and happy, at how easily I can change at least my appearance. Only my insides bled with the pain of peeling scabs. So I kept my inside protected with covers that I changed according to my appearance. Rebellious, dark and mysterious or sweet and soft cornered.

One day, my feet were taking me on an errand commanded by Amanda to the drugstore ('can't believe I just lost my entire container of my bubble gum lip gloss. Get me some fudge strips along the way, will you?').

I was in one of the more adventurous outfits: a body hugging maroon colored dress that loved all of my curves, knee high boots with a three inch heel, and a leather jacket gathering it all up together.

Feeling the stares onto me, I drifted into my cover that I designated for myself that day. Stony silence with deep glares, I made myself a path as people parted the way for me.

As I paid for my groceries (a pack of fudge strips, lip balm, metallic nail polish, gum, and the newspaper), the cashier, a woman, glared at me. I smiled back as sweetly as I could, with this tough exterior.

"Thank you," I say, waving like the President. She looks taken back, but I leave before she reacts.

I stop at a diner, feeling a whim to get a sandwich to account for the past few hours without calories. Feeling grateful for the cushioned seats as my feet rest from the high heeled boots, I leaned back and relax for the first time that day. Away from prying eyes, at least for a while.

I shoo away the waiter after ordering my BLT wrap, and idly begin to play with my napkin. Before I realize what my fingers are doing, I make sturdy knots that when tied together, create a decent noose. I stare at it for a second, recognizing it too well. I rip it up into shreds, breathing hard. My hands tremble. Realizing the mess I've made, I stash it into my quilted purse that should never be disgraced with ripped up napkins.

When my sandwich arrives, along with a phone number from the waiter ('call me later, honey,' he winks. I dismiss him with a raised eyebrow) and a glass of iced tea, I lick my lips. What little appetite I had earlier disappeared with my napkin into tiny pieces. I stare it down for a bit before resigning to the fact that children are starving in Africa, and begin to chow down on it. The taste is too vibrant for me today, especially, and I have a hard time swallowing it down.

After a bite, I put it down and decide to take it out for Amanda. Instead, I simply sip my ice tea and gaze at the menu that's so perfectly positioned so that the customers that are eating getting to see every entrée.

I tense up. I feel someone coming down towards my table, which is positioned in the very back of the restaurant. I curse at myself, for sitting in the seat that has my back to the door.

A man slides into the seat across mine, his eyes staring into mine. I stare back, examining him. The way he holds himself, along with the wrinkles and irregular folds in his clothes that I know usually holds a gun or two. The way his eyes flick over everything, seeing everything and analyzing everything in a moment.

A trained operative is sitting across from me in a diner.

I smile at him, crossing my legs. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.

In a moment, I have one of my stiletto heels aimed right at a pressure point, a hair's length away from pain. At the same time, I see a flash of metal in his hand, under the table.

After a second, we both grudgingly move an inch off from the 'Danger, Shoot before Ask' button. I see something like acknowledgement in his eyes, and I take a sip of my iced tea.

"Morgan," he speaks, raising his eyebrows.

I relax, tipping my head to the side. "You know my name and I don't know yours, I'm afraid, sir," I say, a smile reaching the edges of my lips. Oh, how I had missed this fun game of us spies. Too addicting, that nothing in the regular world can substitute for the rush of danger we feel as every inch of us is in risk.

I think I see a smile coming to him as well, before he reconsiders and grunts. "How are you? A bit busy, from what I've heard."

A laugh erupts from me, as if it's the funniest thing I've ever heard. My mind easily understands the spy language layered beneath it. "Oh no, not at all. I'm not busy at all. It is nice, however, not being busy once in a while, if you understand what I'm saying. You should try it as well, sir."

He clearly understands what I'm saying. Not free enough to dance to whatever tunes the CIA or whoever it may be wants me to dance to. Not free enough to take on a mission for them.

He narrows his eyes at me, before tipping his head forward and a razor edge of a smile ghosting on his face. "Good day, Morgan," he says, as he sleekly slips out of the seat and walks out, as if he's never been there a moment ago.

* * *

When I get back to the store, Amanda looks dead tired, swamped on one of the reclining chairs surrounded by boxes of documents and papers with her hands covering her eyes in a desperate situation. I have a quick flashback of myself, my eyes barely able to stay open as I finish reports on missions in thick detail. Nights going by without sleep, my hand cramping up too much for my pleasure.

I shake myself free of this memory, and smile as Amanda groans and lifts her head to see that it is her newly hired employee.

"Oh, this might be one of the few times I have actually been glad to see your flawless, absolutely self esteem dropping face!" she groaned again, dramatically.

I inwardly grinned at her exaggeration. Amanda faces to challenge Bex in figure, Liz in hair, and Macey in facial features. A bit shorter than me, she had dark auburn hair that tumbles wildly down her back, with sharp, luminous green eyes. A classic heart-shaped face, she has the image of thick, sweet honey.

I begin to unpack the bags of groceries. Her eyes quickly flash to them, and before I can react, the tube of lip balm is open and out, coating her lips generously.

After a moment, she caps the lip balm and walks over to the counter, placing it in its self assured spot right where it's available 24/7.

"Cam," she says, her lips curving into a smile. She's been calling me that ever since she decided that 'Cameron' was too thick and too far away. Cam was much, much better. It just sounds too familiar for me to actually like it.

"Cam," she repeats, and this time, I turn towards her, my head cocked to the side. "Listen. Are you free this Saturday?"

* * *

There's nothing like a last minute notice to get you up and out of bed, brushing your teeth and yanking your hair and trying to cook breakfast at the same time.

I spent about five minutes like a little girl, deciding on what to wear when I realized it was Amanda that we were talking about. Doubtless she would pull me into a dressing room the second she saw me and shove some hangers towards my way.

Just as I was settled for a loose, gray V-neck shirt tucked into some black high-waisted shorts, the doorbell rang.

* * *

"And from the moment I saw you, I thought your outfit was gorgeous, natch, but it fit you so well it was beautiful."

I nodded along; knowing how long descriptions of clothes could take with Amanda. But oddly enough, she stopped quickly.

"The pieces alone were quirky and odd, but together, they just managed to fit like a puzzle. The main point was you."

I felt myself blush at that, when it was the mix of Macey arguing and agreeing with me that should've won the applause. After a quick emergency 911 call to her, my fashion problems were solved for once. But I knew how true those words were. I didn't need a cover for these clothes. I could be myself.

"Oh, here we are." Amanda comments, her eyes scanning the place. "It's got the right crowd this year."

I raise my eyebrow.

"Basically, designers, models, fashion people, everyone has to fit and get along for a perfect show. Last year, they had really new designers that totally screwed the runway with ugly flowers and patterns. And then before, some models were tripping and ended up ruining millions of dollars." She explains.

"Isn't it Amanda," a voice behind us speaks, a male. We turn around to face a stunning set of facial features: high cheekbones, round, large eyes, and a tall nose. He towers over Amanda, but the difference between us is only an inch at most.

"Oliver," she exclaims, a huge smile on her face. She tiptoes and brushes her lips on his cheek, he doing the same.

"It's a pleasure to see you," he smiles back as well, and then glances towards me.

Amanda notices, being the perfect hostess. "Oh, I'm sorry. Cameron, this is Oliver. Oliver, Cameron." If she knows she's using the name Cameron, it doesn't show.

Oliver gazes at me for a moment, and then breaks into smiles again.

"Hello, Cameron," he says. Gently clutching me by my arms, he maneuvers a light kiss on my cheek as well. I do all I can to naturally smile back and not freeze up, much less try to return a kiss.

He seems to realize this, because he quickly moves back from me and sheepishly smiled.

"Your first time here?" he asks, curious.

I nod. "Amanda's invite," I reply, smiling at her.

Amanda rolled her eyes. "All these awkward pauses are making me uncomfortable. Let's go inside now."

He grandly gestures us through the doors, sweeping into a bow as he did. "Welcome, ladies, to Fashion Week!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hi, sorry the chapter's pretty late, and I know it's not much substance. But it's gearing up for some good old action, trust me. Anyways, please enjoy :) and review! **

We oohed and aahed over the various first name celebrities walking around, at the beautiful collections of clothing, at least until we got lost.

Specifically, I got lost. After a minute or so of oohing and aahing by myself over the makeup that the models wore, I got to the conclusion that I was alone.

I looked around, swinging my head side to side to detect any ginger redhead nearby without success.

After five minutes of doing this, I mentally shrugged. It wasn't the end of the world. We would most likely find each other by the end of the day, and if not, well, public transport was always an option.

I wandered around, somehow managing to sneak into the behind the scenes of a fashion show.

They were too busy to notice me, hiding in the corner, as they bustled around with various things in their arms: makeup, clothes, shoes, and coffees.

"There is no time!" I whirl around, calming from a potential heart attack at the loudness of those accented words. A man talking into his cell phone drops his volume and begins to speak quickly in Italian. I listen along, but a moment later, he smashes his cell phone onto the ground and screams.

"When I need a model, I need one now!" It was slightly comical, if not for the ways the people around him looked. They were all frozen in place, scared, as he paced around agitated. He tugged on the lapels of his blue blazer, and his eyes immediately darted to me.

I intake a breath; everyone around me instantly calms down, knowing it's not them that's targeted for his emotional breakdown.

He stalks towards me, and I swallow hard.

"Um, si-"

He cuts me off, grabbing me by my arm. It's ridiculous; I'm stumbling behind him, my shoes barely keeping from snapping off my ankles. I instantly thought of sixty ways to incapacitate the man, but the last minute civilian warning in my head got in the way. Stupid warning.

Stopping abruptly, he whirls around and stares me deep into the eyes. I catch my breath. Beautiful, dark chocolaty eyes drill into my face, and I blush.

"I want you."

I blink. Feelings of love seconds after meeting is unusual, even for my 17 suitors from my CIA past and I.

He turns around, and shouts for something I don't catch, his earlier words still dazing me.

A woman jogs towards me, carrying a huge bag of something and seating me into a chair as I follow her commands robotically.

As she begins whatever she was ordered to do, the man comes up to me, grabs my hands, and kisses me on my lips.

It's a short kiss, and a simple brush of the lips. It still shocks me, a bit. He smiles at me, and I bite my lip.

"Beautiful." Grabbing my hand, he clasps his hand with mine and speaks. "You will be wonderful in my show."

He then rushed off, no doubt with another emotional breakdown to another poor girl. I was left stranded with a scratchy brush doing something to my eyelid, feathering it over.

Show? I wondered, as the makeup woman grimly examines her quick work on my face, and then quickly lifts a mirror to show me, exactly, what had been going on my face.

An intense, minky, taupey, silver shade smokes out my lids, jet-black liner smudging around my eyes. My lashes are coated in voluminous mascara, lengthening them out for miles and miles. The flawless matte pale texture of my face is embellished with a beautiful dark rosy blush and highlighter that only accentuates the high cheekbones that I have.

I thinly smile my coral nude lips at myself, understanding for the first time, why I had exactly 17 men after me. I raise my highly arched eyebrow at the woman behind me, who beams at me (or rather, at her handiwork I suppose).

"Beautiful," she gushes, pushing away the mirror and handling me out of the chair I was sitting in. "Now, you'll go to Sebastien next."

We scamper out of the room, the woman leading me through a hallway to racks and racks of clothes. Except the word 'clothes' doesn't give it any justice to its true form.

Dozens and dozens of gowns and dresses and various beautiful fabrics hung from plastic, black hangers, as people pulled them off and let the fabrics settle over the bodies of thin, tall, gorgeous girls that wiggled to get them down. They all fit perfectly, like a former skin coming to reclaim its place. It made every girl there different from before: a beautiful, glamorous cover that took over the long slender limbs of the body, a temporary lie as everyone out in the world admired the view from afar.

"Ames, this is she."

It was not phrased as a question, seeking for the truth, but rather, as only wanting confirmation with something that had been played with as boredom fell. I turned slowly, my widening eyes landing on a smirking man whose eyes glittered. His dark hair was tied back, a strand of hair falling over his eyes perfectly.

The woman next to me straightened as if her spine was suddenly pulled up. "Yes, Sebastian, she's the one." She murmured, her eyes falling to the ground.

He hummed in affirmation, waving his hand as Ames quickly left with a glance for me.

"Now, now, pray tell, what is your name?" he asked, taking a step closer.

"Madeleine," I murmured back, taking a last second thought as the fake name slipped through my lips with a French accent.

He widened his eyes, surprised at my accent. "You are French, my girl?" he asked, beginning a conversation in French between us.

I lifted my head slightly, letting my eyes stare at his, as a small smile crept up to my lips. "Oh yes, I was born there."

He did not reply to this, except for a head to toe sweep of me as he nodded. "My manners, Madeleine. I am Sebastien."

With this, Sebastien began to let his hands play in the racks of clothing as he pulled out one hanger of absolute beauty.

"How is this, darling?"

He efficiently swooped it over my head, as it landed on me with a airy whoosh.

The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it. But it was true, for all it was worth. The midnight beauty swept along my ankles, the airy, floating fabric wrapping around me in a much needed hug. The strapless sweetheart neckline showed off my strong, slender shoulders and my collarbone, which looked oddly feminine and fragile. I felt different, but still myself as I gazed at it, and myself, together.

"I love it."

He smiled.

* * *

"I'm not really a model," I said, smiling slightly. Sebastien firmly but gently shifted folds of fabric into their positions on my body as he raised his eyebrows in question.

"My friend, Amanda, and I were just looking around, and I got, um, taken up with the crowd."

He stopped his hands for a second, his eyes looking into mine. "Amanda?"

I pondered his tone. Does he know Amanda?

"She's my boss."

His eyes sharpened, and his hands began to move once again. "I see."

After an uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat and said, "If you weren't meant for this, you wouldn't be here."

That was the end of that question.

"So, do you feel nervous?" He smirked, as we waited in line behind the stage. The previous silence still fumed through the air, a slight smoky atmosphere as we both noticed it.

I pondered the question as I heard the music in front begin. It was a loud, pumping, dance beat that echoed in my mind. Nervous was the feeling

I had for the dates I had, never set up by me. Nervous was the feeling I had when I had to explain, really, who I was and what I liked. What I did on the weekends.

Right now, I didn't have that jittery feeling, like a pile of M&Ms bouncing off the walls of my stomach. I felt covered and safe, wrapped up by the layers of this beautiful cloth, making a new story for myself and my life. But I knew, that one day, all those old layers of myself that I'd try to hide now would resurface again, and I couldn't keep hiding under the huge amount of lies I was carrying.

"I feel," I paused, gathering my thoughts as the girl in front of me moved up to walk the runway, "like I'm dreaming."

He leaned down to my ear, and before he pushed me out to the stage, he whispered, "Don't ever wake up and leave me then, Madeleine."

The sound of his voice kept resounding in my mind, and it took over all of my sense as the bright, white lights blinded me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Yay for new chappie :) hope you guys like it too! thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter, and as always, enjoy reading and feel free to review~ **

* * *

It was all over in a flash.

The bright lights, the audience, the dancey music, everything in that nervous, heartpumping moment as I let everyone see exactly who I was. All those unknown strangers sitting cross-legged as I felt their eyes crawl all over me, they didn't care who I was at all. And that was how I liked it.  
Three more trips around that dizzying runway with gorgeous, silky cloth that felt like nothing on my striding legs, as I stood for a second in that spotlight with the best look I could muster, it felt like eternity.

Eternity as all the models and I scattered behind the stage as the show ended.

Eternity as I heard the soft, rain-like claps that I knew were meant for me, too. Eternity as instincts took over; I ungracefully slipped off the indigo blue strappy heels that would cost a fortune I could not afford, and slipped away, still dressed in my midnight blue beauty.

The claps had disappeared from my ears. Slipping away unobtrusively, I somehow found a little corner tucked away from all the people, all the attention that I now hated.

It was a weird sight: Me, a tall, long limbed creature, bending and folding into myself as I settled in a tiny space between an ordinary closet and a tower of cardboard boxes that were on top of each other like building blocks.

The sudden rush of adrenaline I had felt earlier was ebbing away, until the only thing I could hear in that tiny space was my deafening breathing.

* * *

Memory works best.

My eyes strained from my hiding place as every single detail clicked in: the empty wrinkles and spaces in his suit now filled with weapons and ways to stop anyone in his way. The cold, steely aura paired with the stuffy, choking smell of his cigarettes.

I know him.

The doubt about his organization was completely clear now. CIA. Training to keep your instincts alive and your emotions dead.

The reasons for his existence at a fashion show were limited. Especially why behind the scenes? Tailing me is impossible; all those operatives from Saudi Arabia should know. He is here for a mission.

And I want to know why.

* * *

"Morgan," he greeted me casually, but his eyes were already scanning the area for anything with a risk of danger.

"Operative Travis." I smiled thinly. He raises his eyebrows not in surprise, but rather in smug amusement. "Thank you for coming."

We were in a musty, darkly lit Chinese restaurant with red everywhere. A plastic cup of water with perspiration beading the outside sat before me.

He settled in the seat across me, just like before.

"It's protocol, as you know. I do have a question for you."

I took a long sip of my water, pacing my time as I thought.

"It seems like you're in a rush, Operative. But all right, how about question for question?" I asked.

He nodded. "How did you know the code? It changes every five hours, for every different mission."

The code he was talking about was something nearly every mission had: an emergency only call out to anyone who knew the code and where to meet. The idea was basic in structure, but in real life it got sticky. Details and times and location changed everything. And the chance of an ambush was always possible, therefore the passwords were guarded with high security.

"I know it does."

He leaned back, clearly unsatisfied. "That is not an answer."

I sighed, then slowly I brought up a folded note of paper. I slid it across the sticky table halfway.

He gingerly reached for it.

"I did your entire team a favor, you know." And I did. Usually, local mafia or gangs rarely caused trouble to missions. But a bit of a scramble of hands and you could be shot right in the head with a special gang trademark bullet. I had just gotten rid of some danger to their team, right under their noses.

Travis narrowed his eyes, first at the paper, and then at me. "Fine. Your turn."

I smiled. "What is the current mission you're on?"

He stared at me. "What the hell are you saying, Morgan?"

"I'm sure your hearing is in perfect condition."

"You are a CIA operative. You know why I can't tell you."

"I was a CIA operative," I corrected. "And I believe you were all up for recruiting me, a former CIA operative, for this mission. Isn't it a felony, to involve a civilian in a mission?"

He rubbed his face, sighing. "You were one of the best of our organization, Morgan. You survived that mission in Londo-"

In a flash, there was a dull thunk that effectively cut off his words, as his eyes traveled down to the dull dinner knife stuck in the table, held by my hand.

"This is why you were dismissed," he whispered softly, his eyes glittering.

"You didn't answer my question, Travis," I coldly whispered, my eyes narrowed.

-  
"He's what?"

Travis glared at me. "Don't make me repeat myself."

I kicked a pebble away, hitting the wall as it bounced off. "Sebastien Martin is a protectee of the CIA."

"Officially he's known as Sebastian Fontaine, for security. He's at high risk for being targeted by certain organizations. Surely you recognize the names, Morgan. If you didn't, you would have been dismissed a long time ago."

"The French ambassador," I spoke quietly, as the situation began to link itself back together. There were several political disputes this past year within the inner government of France, and diplomatic disputes between the other countries of Europe.

"Does he know?"

The man nimbly slid out a cigarette, holding it in his thin lips as he looked at me coolly.

"You know the answer, Operative Morgan."

It's been awhile since someone had called me that. "I'm not," I whisper, my voice scratchy. I'm not the CIA Operative that was on that mission in London. I'm not the one that killed her. That's not me.

But it was as if Travis had known exactly what my mind would say, the dread truth that I would go to lengths to avoid.

"You can't ever change who you are, Morgan."  
-

It all escalated from one Sunday morning.

"Welcome," I airily smile, keeping that plastic sales associate face on; Amanda had finally decided that was the best face for me after scaring some Bulgarian tourists away with my scowls. "There are some weekend sales and new arrivals right over here," I drone.

"Really?" A soft, deep voice asked. It sounded far too familiar for my taste. "What about you?"

"Excuse me?"

Just then, Amanda bursted out from the back room with a streak of blush on her chin with some metallic objects (accessories?) tangled up in her hair.

"Sebastian! I'm so sorry, I forgot completely. And you're early, as always."

Sebastian?

I took a careful look at the man again, whose voice sounded too familiar. There was no way I couldn't have recognized him. But as I looked closer, looking for certain things that identified Sebastian, I could see a faint outline of the man I had met a few weeks ago. Thick, black glasses covering his ivory green eyes, a long, heavy orange scarf covering his natural features with ease. His tall, masculine shoulders and arms stuffed in a figureless coat that cuts his shoulders into thick, muscle-less lumps.

I marveled at his appearance change, noting, with a little envy, the simplicity and quality of his disguise.

Now, Sebastian thinly smiled at Amanda, sliding a hotel stationery note onto the clear glass of the counter in front of me. I could slightly see some of the words: sunday, museum.

"I take it that means you can't go?"

Amanda sighed. "You know me too well. But I have a perfect replacement."

I got a sinking feeling as Sebastian raised his brows and looked at me.

"Madeleine?"

But Amanda kept it up, nodding at she swiped the paper and looked at it, humming. She didn't even blink at the name change."Yes, yes, Madeleine here," and she paused, before continuing, "she needs some more experience for this store, sweetie, so you'll go with Sebastian right?" Her attention was turned to me.

I tried to come up with an excuse, anything, really, to get me out of this spot. I wasn't going to put myself into a CIA mission, not when I'm a civilian. I don't even want to be in the proximity of this matter.

"I'm not really inter-"

"Good." Amanda said firmly, cutting me off and spinning me out the door, hooking my arm with Sebastian's. "Get me some of that chocolate, you hear?"

Sebastian chuckled as we got chucked out the door, me stumbling midstep as Sebastian gracefully saved me with a scoop of his arm around me.

"Thank you," I managed, getting back into a balanced position.

He tipped his head, leading us to a car stall as he rummaged around for a key in his pocket.

"So, what are we doing?" I asked.

My question hung in the cold, air conditioned car as Sebastian kept his eyes on the road, turning at a left intersection. I thought I heard a tiny sigh from him as he finally stopped in front of a tall, ornate building.

"Well, Madeleine," he finally said, turning to me for the first time, a lopsided smile on his face, "what do you want to do?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: May I present to you the sorely late fifth chapter, ladies and gentlemen. I apologize for the wait, and may it never occur in times of worry again. Nevertheless, enjoy! **

***Bad news: due to schoolwork, among other things, updating may take a bit of willpower. But hopefully I have pulled through with this latest update. **

* * *

"Gotcha."

He squinted as I pointed at a white truck, sighing as he confirmed it with his eyes. "Right, why did I ever agree to play this game?"

"Men can never resist the temptation to win." I rolled my eyes, fingering the studded collar of my shirt. "So, let's see. What did I already ask?"  
Sebastian winced, then bit his lip as he sighed. I smiled in anticipation, already knowing and amused. "Clowns, heights, uh, fifth grade school fair, Angela Chong, and cats."

I smiled wider. "Cats?"

He winced again, then tentatively smiled at me. "Let's move on?"

I huffed dramatically, sighing. "Fine. Okay, so how did you and Amanda first meet?"

He was quiet for a moment, before resting his face in his hands, leaning forward.

"It was a cup of pudding."

"Pudding."

Now he looked at me, grinning. "I'm sure your vocabulary is exemplary, Madeleine. Yes, pudding."

"And?"

"What?"

"How did the cup of pudding create a window of opportunity for you two to meet?"

Sebastian leaned back further, stretching his arms as he yawned. I could feel several pairs of eyes, female, mostly (you never really want to know the people who traverse local parks with bright eyebrows) straining at our bench.

If he knew how much attention he gathered, he never acknowledged it, except for a smirking eyebrow arched as his eyes wandered to the salivating women.

"We were at a gala, for some overeager, rich, amateur designer, both invited because of ... connections, I suppose you would say."

A tiny seedling of a frown sprouted at the corner of his mouth, and I mentally noted this as he continued.

"Anyways, the baked custard puddings were a hit there. They were the top chef's creation, and it was so perfect, the perfect melting texture with a sugary, almost bittersweet caramel sauce." He closed his eyes, no doubt remembering the perfect pudding. "I had some prior business, and I came late, but just in time for the last cup. Amanda also came late you know, no doubt from some stranger's bed." He smiled at that thought, momentarily diverted from his pudding thoughts.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't tell me."

He pointed at me, widening his eyes dramatically. "Exactly, Madeleine! Amanda stole that pudding from right before me in all its jiggly texture!"

His antics were too much for me. I burst out laughing, feeling so strange with being unable to control my actions. It was as if it was long overdue; it was too pent up for me to do anything but hold my sides and my tears back as my stomach hurt with laughter.

Sebastian looked at me with a curious, if wary, expression, his eyebrows raised.

"Are you all right? I'm not sure whether to be pleased or insulted that you found it that funny."

* * *

"I would think a different place to be more appropriate for you," I said carefully, eyeing my surroundings.

We were in a home center store, the smell of wood filling the air as yellow vested employees strutted by with crazed looking eyes. There were families with little children walking around with carts of flowers and pots, the perfect advertising image.

"Really? I do happen to enjoy walking down the aisles at midnight. It's very calming."

Then, he led me across the store, stopping when the smell hit us.

It was a strong, yet subtle smell, reminiscent of a old warehouse raiding I took part in 3 years ago.

"Ta-da! The greatest color museum in the neighborhood!" He stood proudly, his arms outstretched, a carefree smile on his face.

I just raised my eyebrows. "Really, Sebastian?"

He slowly put his arms down, smirking. "Well, it is the basic step for your education in fashion, Madeleine. Now, let's see-"

"Hi, may I help you?" A man walked up to us, a plastic smiled glued to his face even as his eyes rolled down me in a sticky, disgusting way. I resisted the urge to kick him where it would count, as I kept my employee smile on as well. I could see sweat stains under his arms, and his belted waist too tight for his stomach.

"We've got a great roommate sale going on right now."

I quirked my eyebrows up. Roommates? Two twenty-somethings walking in a home center, of the opposite gender?

"Yes, well, we were actually thinking of redecorating." Sebastian said slowly, his hand slowly grasping the curve of my waist. I ground my teeth as a tiny smile crept

up my face as well. I leaned into Sebastian's side, pinching very, very, hard as his hand slid back to his side.

"Isn't that right, honey?"

I sweetly nestled against him, glaring at him with a smile. "Right, love."

The salesman looked less than happy, but nevertheless led us to his desk in hopes of selling something.

I could see a tiny glint of gold as he turned for a moment, and I suddenly had a good idea.

Two can play at this game, my husband.

"So, Mr.." I pretended to crane my head, looking for his name, as my blouse dropped to give a tiny, frame for my cleavage. Just a bit.

He smirked, his eyes wandering on my chest as he huffed. "It's Mr. Sander, ma'am."

"Mr. Sander, are you married?" I asked in a sweet, smiling voice.

"Oh sweetie, don't bother poor Mr. Sander about our problems, he doesn't need to hear them," Sebastian grinned back with a touch of annoyance.

Annoyed, are we, honey? I thought, with a touch of amusement.

"It's perfectly fine, sir. I'm always here for any damsel in distress."

I fluttered my lashes, pretending to be flattered. Chivalry was so, so dead. Especially for females.

"So, are you married, Mr. Sander?" I persisted, widening my eyes.

He replied, with the same oily voice from before. "I'm not, as a matter of fact."

"Really? I'm surprised, a charming man like you. Then again, perhaps you enjoy your single life?"

Sebastian guffawed. I whacked him on the shoulder playfully. He winced.

"I wouldn't mind having a beautiful wife like yours, sir," he winked at me, and I curved my lips, biting my bottom lip as a memory resurfaced in my mind.

* * *

_Sweet, burning champagne slid slickly down my throat as I threw my head back and nestled into the lower, scruffly neck of the Prime Minister of a certain Asian country, plagued with the keen interest of the United States CIA._

_"Nadia, pour me some of that wine, will you?" He asked, scratching his temple._

_I dipped down, letting out a soft, long, luxurious sigh as I swept myself off the couch. "Yes, minister." My voice was accented, a slight tinge of Indonesian dialect as _

_I gracefully scooped the wine with the neck of the bottle and placed it soundlessly on the glass table._

_"Sometimes I wonder if I should hire you as my personal housemaid, the domesticated girl you are."_

_My feminist temper flared as I kept a cool, complacent smile on my face, a tiny smirk on my lips. "And shall I dress as the part?"_

_He guffawed, his choking laughs echoing in the room. "And that is why you are hired here to entertain me, Nadia, instead of a mere maid. You are worth more, and also less, than that."_

_"But that is my job, to be worth more and less than a mere maid," I mirthed, repeating his words. The fact that my job is to be a honeypot, gives me the best of the darkest world._

_"Come here."_

_I swayed along, coming closer as he commanded, tucking a curl of hair behind my ear as I leaned into him, ready for the night to end._

_It ended three months later, the man cornered into the personal quarters of his, eyes wide open as the woman he truly loved, the darkness of him, forcing him with a loaded gun._

_"I loved you, Nadia."_

_"I was a tool for you, minister. Wasn't I? Every month, a load of money was wired to my account. I was nothing in your heart."_

_"Were the nights we spent together nothing to your cold heart that does not love, Nadia? You would have left, have not I enticed you with the agreement we had planned out."_

_I looked at him, my hand calmly holding the gun. He was disheveled. Hair ruffled, red eyes, scars and bruises everywhere. Somewhere else, someone else, the result would have been much more different. But not now._

_The chains were rattling, outside of the shadowy cellar we were in. Sooner or later, they'll know where we are. The organizations I face are never stupid._

_"You're right, minister. My heart doesn't love in this world. It will never love, as long as I stay who I am."_

_Then, with a quick swing of my arm, I aimed the gun right at him, where it will count. He widened his eyes in horror, but before he could react, the silenced gun killed whatever he was going to do._

_The voices were getting louder, the halls outside tempering with footsteps. Still I walked closer to the collapsed body of the minister, and leaned down silently._

_"Loving me will doing nothing for you," I whispered, my fingers playing the piano down his cheek. With a last look at the dart of tranquilizer in his breathing chest, _

_I smoothly jumped into the hidden passageway behind the walls of stone._

* * *

"So here, is a great cool palette of some nice mints, and some teal as well. It's a great complimentary deal with the oranges and the yellows. And here are some analogous co-"

I jumped slightly as I felt the soft vibration in Sebastian's pocket. He winked at me, before extending a hand to Mr. Sander's shoulder.

"Excuse me, Mr. Sander, I have to get this call. But please, do go on about everything else with my wife. She's the enthusiastic one here."

I managed to withhold a withering roll of my eye, as Mr. Sander looked particularly excited for Part 5: Exploring Elementary Art.

"Of course, sir. Let's go this way, ma'am?"

I nodded playfully, stepping closer to the man as my supposed husband walked away, strain stringing its way up his back as he turned away.

I kept a glance out of the corner of my eye towards Sebastian, my ears keening for any stream of conversation that might pass to me.

"So, how long have you been married?" Mr. Sander asked casually, with sweat popping down his face. I resisted the urge to get him out of my way to observe Sebastian, and simply smiled at him tiredly.

"Oh, it feel like we've been married for eternity," I sighed, not really into giving him concrete answers. A thought sprang into my mind as I mentally grinned and grimaced at the same time. It would be extremely disgusting but satisfying.

"Really?" he asked, a bit too enthusiastic to be surprised. "You two look like newlyweds, for heaven's sake! The perfect American couple, as they say."

"Yes, yes, everyone says that." I idly reply, waving my hand as I rolled my eyes. "But the truth is, Mr. Sander, can I trust you to keep my little secrets? Sometimes, a woman just needs... some advice, if you understand what I mean."

I nudged myself a bit closer to him, breathing a little heavily than usual. Intimidating people, making people feel the way you want them to, it can take the littlest steps to make things happen.

"O-oh, yes, ma'am. But perhaps we'd best finish up this color tour before any advice circles," he suggested, oiling his words.

I mentally rolled my eyes. Of course he wouldn't take any blame if they were found to be, erm, associating, somewhere in a dark corner. He would proclaim that he was jumped on, and indeed, it will be told that he had tried to derail the married woman from her intent. But women are, as always, sinning everywhere.

"Perhaps," I brightly said, grasping the handle of my bag. He looked momentarily disappointed, and I thought of the number of women he'd brought here to 'advice circles' while his wife sat at home washing his shirts. "In fact, I believe my husband might already be done with his phone call."

"Are you sure? You seemed like you awfully need some advice," he said, reaching for my arm, tensing, smirking as he continued, "your husband, he's a very nice man, but not a man, I believe, to be a good husband."

I continued the ditzy, stupid gorgeous wife act as his fingers enclosed around my wrist, leaving sticky, red marks that stung.

"Oh, Mr. Sander, let's just go back, okay?" I pleaded, my other hand forming a fist as it hid from his view.

But before he could reply, probably with some snarky, wife abuser remark, another arm came around my waist.

I was ready to hit whoever it was, and hard, right where it would count. But then words brushed my ears.

_Shh. I'm here now._

"Mr. Sander, how is the color wheel going?" Sebastian asked coolly, me nestled against him by reflex, my head hitting just right above his chin. His arm gently circled around me, holding me by my waist. I visibly sighed in relief, then looked up at him.

His expression was frightening.

It had the same, cool, detached look that was there on the day I had met him, but something in his voice changed it all. I suddenly understood the threat he had, not just as a possible target, but as a person, as a man instead.

I suddenly became very concerned for Mr. Sander's physical and mental condition, despite the greasy douchebag that he was.

"Oh, honey, it was nothing," I said, babbling, smiling loosely as I continued. "Mr. Sander's very ni-"

He shushed me with a finger, examining me from head to toe. "It's fine, sweetie, Madeleine." His fingers then very gently, touched my wrist and the red marks

that were slowly fading away. As if he was trying to hide them, he grasped my wrist too, and all the red marks and the pain disappeared, just like that.

"It was nothing, as Made-"

"Don't say her name, you goddamn son of a bitch."

It was silent. I could practically hear the people scurrying away for their lives, following their fight or flight instinct.

"Honey," I said, trying to keep our cover alive as I tugged on his sleeve, but he ignored me.

"Don't you go blaming me for everything," Mr. Sander spat, his pudgy face red and puffy. He had completely stopped being the salesman, and transformed into the ugly creature that he was. "That whore of your wife, she was all for this too, you know. You think she's innocent? She's guilty as hell. All women do that, you know? They try to tempt you all into sin. If I were you, I'd dump her out right now-"

The rest of the actions were a blur: Sebastian with his fist, punching the man into the face with a silent shout, his fist bleeding as I widened my eyes and unconsciously screaming. Mr. Sander was left alone, knocked out as I rushed to Sebastian, my fingers splayed out over his fist, swallowing hard as I concentrated away from his grimaces.

"Sebastian," I whispered, my eyes wide.

And all he did was smile tiredly, and replied with a whisper of his own.

_Shh._

* * *

The car ride back was silent, the radio off with just the rain as our background soundtrack. The sky was fogged up with dark grey clouds, the fluorescent green lights of the stereo system lighting up our faces.

"So that was bad, huh?" Sebastian wryly grinned, turning at an intersection as I gulped.

"I'm really sorry," I whispered, half ashamed and half regretful.

"You don't have to be sorry," he retorted back, swerving into the side lane as he stopped the car. "Madeleine, it wasn't your fault, okay?"

"But I was-"

"That salesman was overstepping his bounds, and you know it. Now, let's get some ice cream, okay?"

I took a breath, about to argue out of this conversation, my pride deflating at the thought of becoming a victim to chivalry - chivalry of all things! But then I changed my mind. Taking a sneak peek at Sebastian's hand, I felt a surge of guilt rise up in me before I gulped them down, barely.

"What flavor?" I asked, trying to disguise my voice with cheerfulness.

He noticed, but said nothing as he cocked his head, looking at me. "You'll see."

* * *

"Wow," I whispered, taking a deep breath as the smell made me walk closer.

"Wait, Madeline, let's not go that way-"

I shot him a glare, and he dropped his hands right away, slightly cowering from me as I happily pranced towards the salvation of sins.

Ice Cream World.

There were hundreds of flavors, all sorted by, of course, an organized flavor family. The new ones were exotic: Pineapple Crush, Dragonfruit Paradise; while the classics were just as delicious as ever: Chocolate, Vanilla, Strawberry.

"Am I paying for that?" Sebastian warily glancing at my tray of ice cream goodies.

I raised my eyebrow. "Weren't you the knight of chivalry, oh Sir Lancelot?"

He sighed deeply. "All right, give it to me. But for the record, Sir Lancelot doesn't exist."

I was stunned, as he walked towards the register looking like a dad of ten children with his neon tray of ice cream cups.

I caught up with him, quickly, as we both exited and sat at a retro-looking table outside.

"What did you mean by that?" I asked.

"By what?"

"The Sir Lancelot thing."

"Why so interested?" He curiously asked back, taking a bite of my precious Cherry Garcia as I watched, horrified.

"Because if he doesn't exist, chivalry doesn't exist."

"Not necessarily, Madeleine. But for the record, it is thought that Lancelot does not exist. Some Medieval authors fabricated romantic stories of adventures for King Arthur. But there actually was a code of chivalry and knights and all that."

"Hmm." I sat back, clearly uninterested and disappointed. Chivalry is so dead.


End file.
